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Dawn

Washing You Away

By Brigitte VonPublished 5 years ago 2 min read
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Your voice is my favorite sound. Like the squeaking of my bed frame as the energy of the morning kisses my body, so does the sound of you arouses me to wake. Not from sleep but the terrors of reality.

But when my eyes really open, I realize it’s not you I’ve been listening to. You’re gone. You’ve been gone. The neighbors are making love again.

I light a candle and fill the room with the beautiful white smell and listen for a little while.

“God,” I think. “This is disgusting.” And it is. But I don’t move because the room is a tomb, and I’ve chosen to be a corpse.

I open the window and chuck the cigarette out. The subtle blue of dawn beckons my nakedness to taste the spring, to wear it, to make love in it. It sings to me much like you used to sing to me.

The neighbors climax together, and there is a long period of silence before the talking starts, before they’re giggling and kissing the jewels of sweat off their skin. That’s the pattern. Then they shower, and she leaves for work, and he leaves for work, and the dogs bark until noon. And I get up and shower off the memory that kisses leave behind.

It’s been two months, but I can still feel them. I can still feel your lips on me, lips that tore my heart open bit by bit and left suddenly, leaving me to bleed out. I scrub the soap into my skin until I’m raw and red and remember. I remember you, and I remember that in seven years, my skin will renew itself, and it’ll be like you were never here.

I will have skin that you will not have touched, and the memory will be gone.

sad poetry
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